


Killing Me

by Hipsterian



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Murdering, mild abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipsterian/pseuds/Hipsterian
Relationships: Kim Jinwoo/Song Minho | Mino
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Killing Me

**Killing Me**

Loving Jinwoo was his privilege. Letting him break his heart was for the best. It was Jinwoo's, to begin with, he could have done with it whatever he wanted, he wouldn’t care – not when he had given it to him, forever. And he was so very kind. Soft and gentle. He never played with it, he always took good care of his sentiments, his feelings, the greatest love he could offer. It hurt like heaven.

But Minho belonged to Jinwoo, that couldn't be erased, that will always be embedded into his flesh, inked on the back of his core. He was his first. He held him in a way that was new. No one else did it before. No one else will do it again. Because they won't be Minho. And they wouldn't love Jinwoo the way he did. The way he still does, because loving Jinwoo was timeless, a neverending sensation pulsing from his heart, drowning his senses.

All the broken bits on pieces of his heart were still Jinwoo's, despite the pain, the longing, the aching, the recollections of their kisses that felt warm on his lips, his hands on his, fingers intertwined. Despite all the time passed, Jinwoo will never be replaced, forgotten. He had him, he loved him, he was blessed.

He messed it up. He said it was too much, that he was too intense, too protective. Jealous, overreacting. Bullshit.

He made it sound as if he was sick. Maybe he was. Sick of love. Of love for him - his Jinwoo. And he has lost him, and the world was cruel again. Maybe he was cruel, too, because Jinwoo made him be a better person and, without him, the universe was pointless, empty, dark and lonely.

He will never have Jinwoo again, Minho was sure of it. But if he couldn't have him, no-one else will.

Minho was a flame, burning like a fallen star crashing on the ground. He consumed Jinwoo, he took everything from him, leaving him as alone as he was before meeting him. So they would live together forever. So they could build up their own universe, filled with a stardust love, eternal and bright and right. But Jinwoo blew the dream away. He tore the pieces, he threw them away and ran and escape from his embrace. Minho let it be. Minho knew that he was going to meet him again. In this time, in this life, in this city where they both lived.

He let Jinwoo be, believing that he would come back once he had a taste of real-life - the misery of the streets, the holes left by people who were meant to him. He would come back to where he belonged and Minho would take him, all forgiveness and lovely. But Jinwoo didn't come back. He found another place to relate, other people who allowed him in.

Minho waited.

For years, like a shadow, following him, behind closed doors and black windows, distant, preying him, like a lion about to hunt its prey. He was cornering him silently, restlessly.

For years he just followed him, studied him, his new, flashing life, his new friends and neighbours. Everyone. He waited for his chance. And the time was coming closer, dragging Jinwoo back to him, even if he didn't know. He will soon, he will meet Minho.

There was only a tiny, little thing interposed between his objective but he will take care of it, though. Nothing will stop him from owning Jinwoo again. Nothing and nobody.

The cumbersome is just a trifle. Something he will solve tonight. And then he will visit Jinwoo with a lovely surprise.

Red hands and a red, gummy smile. This is how Jinwoo finds him, waiting on his room, a fussy feeling, something warm lying on his chest. The smell is intoxicating, sweet and dizzy, the air tastes like blood and his heart skips a beat.

"He was trying to steal something that belongs to me," Minho claims, hands up to him. "I had to protect you, babe." There is something thick and viscous spreading down his fingers like pain colouring his flesh scarlet. There is a heart open on the palm of his hands and he looks at it proudly. "He won't hurt you again, love", he promises, pushing Seunghoon's heart to him. Jinwoo knows because he has seen it, because he has understood the meaning of what Minho was telling him – because Seunghoon was too close to him and Minho has deleted him, like rubbing ink: just an annoyance, an inconvenient.

"I'll take care of you, hyung. You know it. You don't have to worry about anything", he says, his stained hands splashing red on Jinwoo's cheeks. He kisses him sweetly, slowly, the heart held in between their bodies. 

Jinwoo shakes when he encircles his frame, when he pushes him to bed and tugs the blankets, washing away all the remaining traces of Seunghoon.

"I love you," Jinwoo says. Its been a month. It is sweet and darling and a lie but Minho lets it go because this will change. Jinwoo needs more time.

And when a lie is told a hundred times its no longer a lie but a hidden truth, Minho knows. Jinwoo will come around. Jinwoo will be his again, fully, willingly, without wavering, without hesitation. Like before, they will be one, a family, a unit.

They kiss and they fuck and they live together as if normal: as if nothing at all has happened between them. As if time has frozen still just before Jinwoo ran away.

They don't go to Seunghoon's funeral: too much for Jinwoo to cope with. The police said it was an accident but Jinwoo still has his heart, preserved in formol.

"He was just a friend," he mutters, hands around the jar, eyes following the fluid of the organ.

"You don't have to worry about him again," Minho reassures him, his hands fidgeting on his hair, lips dancing over his head, ready to pepper some kisses. Jinwoo smiles but it tatters and Minho is aware that he is lying again: he knows too well that Seunghoon wasn't just a friend – and even if he was, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Jinwoo isn't locked up but finds no reason to go out. Minho would know. He is sure of that. He has found him before. Has always since the first day. And he doesn't want to escape because he is tied to Minho's soul.

He has to stay, for Seunghoon. For himself. For a better life.

He is just a lifeless doll on his hands; precious and fragile and Minho treats him accordingly to this: he takes care of everything that Jinwoo needs. He baths him, feeds him, lulls him to sleep, kisses him with so much love and adoration that, sometimes, Jinwoo wants to love him back.

It would be so easy to let go of the grudges, forget it all and allow Minho to lead him the way he wants, to be happy as they were before – in that time halted inside of their dreams. But Seunghoon's memory haunts him, always nagging at the bottom of his consciousness. So he pretends and he lies and let Minho believe that he is loved too and the picture lingers on his mind, bitter-sweet.

There is nothing he can do. He cuts more vegetables and puts them on the pot. Sometimes he likes to cook and Minho beams coming home smelling the delicate aroma of handmade food. Minho works out, Jinwoo isn't aware of what he does, but he brings money home - lots of it, enough for him to treat Jinwoo as a king, spoiling him with expensive clothes and rings and whatever he would ever want, Minho would find it for Jinwoo.

He observes, entranced, how the blade falls and cuts and, like this, an idea blooms inside his head. When Minho comes home he makes sure that the knife is blunt and useless and tells Minho that he will throw it to the trash. He hides the new one where Minho can't see it through Minho never wanders through his belonging - he has none. He hides it well nevertheless and, whenever he is alone, he takes it out and stares into it for hours.

He can do it, he thinks. But he could also just let it all slip off, sinking into nothing until the feelings afloat. He could love Minho, forget what he has done, forget about Seunghoon, his laugh like the sun brushing gently his skin. He can skirt around his own memories, pretend that it's OK to fully accept Minho. After all, he has never, ever, hurt him. He is so good to Jinwoo, always caring, always giving, always ensuring that he is loved, that he is his everything and more - that he is his life, his world. Jinwoo runs the blade against his flesh until there are little traces of red. It tastes like wine. Later on, he will tell Minho that a stray cat scratched him while he was trying to pet it – and Minho buys the excuse because he is so full of trust, Jinwoo knows because in front of Minho Jinwoo can only speak the truth.

Minho always beams at him and he is so nice and sweet, never forcing him, never touching him against his will - but he has no will at all so, does it even matter? A voice that sounds like Seunghoon bubbles up, nagging at him from the bottom of his mind. It’s true, though, Jinwoo is empty. There is only darkness inside his eyes, an eternal rain falling on his chest, constricting, suffocating. And then, there is Minho.

He has loved him once, he can do it again, he is convinced. And so he puts the knife away, away from his murderous hands, away from his dangling thoughts about open arms and flooding blood. He won’t do it – because Seunghoon would want him to keep going, to go through it, to be strong and sufficient, to deal with pain and agony and Minho. Jinwoo can’t bail or dither – he owes it to Seunghoon’s memory.

Minho kisses him good night, turns off the lights and cuddles with him, his chest against his back, his hands romancing on his shirt, fingers dancing, tentatively, trickling, drawing figures on his dreams. Like this, with the moonlight coating them in silver, it is so easy to evade reality – when everything is so quiet that he can only hear Minho’s breath gently puffing on his blades and cheeks -, to forget who he is, what Minho has done, the hollow places of his heart, the heart that glows in formol. If only time would help him heal, he could give it all to Minho, feign that everything was perfect. But time only opens his wounds wider, ripping him alive with images of what he has lost, all his missing parts – the parts that Minho cut in the past, when he followed him everywhere, burning with jealousy, making Jinwoo fade away, turning him into sand and paper. Not now, though.

Now Minho treats him with utmost respect and love. He gives him space and freedom but Jinwoo is just too scared to move, too frozen to escape as he did before – he could close the door behind him and disappear, not leaving any trace for Minho to find him and, yet, he isn’t amused by the idea of running away.

But he can’t stay, either. Because he is not sick like Minho, he is not controlling and patronising and paranoid. Jinwoo is normal – was, at least, before Minho: now his mind plays tricks on him and it’s so hard to recognise reality from fantasy. Perhaps he is becoming like Minho, frantic, erratic, maniac. Maybe he will kill, too. Kill to break free.

No, no. He won’t – the mere thought makes him shimmer with fears, panicking. He isn’t Minho: he will never be. He won’t let it happen, he will stay always golden, always clean.

Cherry blossoms are blooming. Minho holds his hand and guides him around the river. The wind is warm and petals dance across the sky, slowly falling to the ground. It is so quiet and beautiful, Jinwoo is entranced. Minho is fascinated looking at Jinwoo, his brown, dark hair covered in soft pink and white. He brushes the flowers away and makes Jinwoo laughs. The sound, so long forgotten, rings like bells, like the announcement of spring, where everything is florescence again, changing, becoming after withering on winter.

Minho doesn’t control Jinwoo at all this time – he has learnt from his errors, he won’t make the same mistakes again. After a year, Minho starts believing that Jinwoo has come around, finally, that he isn’t faking the ‘I love you, too’, that they are both on the same page. He feels at ease, peaceful. He has all he has ever imagined, all that he needs – he has Jinwoo lying in bed, exposed and vulnerable, his body revealed, a myriad of freckles he has just kissed a minute ago before taking him, making him moan in delight. He smooches the sweat of his forehead and smooths his sticky hair. Jinwoo mumbles something inaudible on his sleep – and Minho’s heart trembles in fascination, admiring the beauty that exhales from Jinwoo.

Jinwoo is waiting because he has dreamt of a happy ending. But the ending isn’t coming and he can’t fake it any longer. He has to act before he will sink into this farse further, unable to get out of it, always trapped inside of Minho, inside the golden cage that is Minho’s love. There isn’t a happy ending for them, it can’t be, not after Seunghoon – if only he was alive Jinwoo could endure it but his gosht is hunting him like frozen water on his veins. He has to do something and he knows it.

The knife weights on his hand. Minho is smoking on the balcony, white puff of nicotine emanating from between his lips. He turns around at the sound of Jinwoo’s steps and kisses his lips. He sees the glint and smiles at it.

There is blood and there are tears. He rubs his eyes where the smoke is still blurring his vision and remembers – because he doesn’t want to forget the taste of their last kiss, the way his eyes gleamed, the way the light of his eyes died with his last breath, how he put him down and kissed the blood from his parted lips, his hands cold and unreachable. He has cried then, over his body, over the wounds he inflicted on him, his hands shaking, clutching on his shirt, unable to move, to let him go, mumbling his name, numb on the floor, praying for it to not be real, for him to wake up. His eyes have run out of tears, his lips are sore and riped, his throat coarse after screaming to heaven to let him come back, his heart aching for what he has done, for the life he has taken away.

Now there is no way out.

He has washed his reddened hand and the stains on his clothes and smirked at the reflection on the mirror. With one last glance at the place he called home, he throws the lighter and let the flames begin, engulfing all that he has ever loved.


End file.
